


A Change In The Blood

by veronamay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood Drinking, Blood Sharing, Blow Jobs, Episode: s04e04 Metamorphosis, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-10-15
Updated: 2008-10-15
Packaged: 2018-01-12 15:27:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1190214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veronamay/pseuds/veronamay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean tries to fix things.  Sam lets him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Change In The Blood

**Author's Note:**

> To all those people wanting another schmoopy 4x04 coda with caring tender Wincest: this is not the fic you're looking for. To everyone else: hi! Have some fucked up porn.

Dean lets the subject drop, for which Sam is grateful. He feels like hell—no pun intended—and all he wants to do is stand under a hot shower for a while and then faceplant into a bed. He doesn't want to think about it.

Dean's words won't leave his mind, though. _Not alone_ , he'd said, soft and certain, big-brother sure. Sam wishes he could believe that, but he knows better. He's already lived it once.

They pull into a motel lot about twenty minutes later. Sam stays in the car with the engine running while Dean goes to pay for the room. When he emerges from the office he flashes six fingers and points; Sam slides into the driver's seat and parks the car. Dean meets him at the trunk, passing over his backpack and duffle automatically. He's quiet, a near miracle for Dean, and Sam wonders if he's hurt worse than he looks. He checks him over surreptitiously as they go inside, but if Dean's hiding an injury he's doing it damned well. All Sam sees is weariness and the slight frown that means Dean has a headache from Jack knocking him out.

Once they're inside with the door locked and salted behind them, Sam sinks onto his bed and lets out a sigh. He feels a little sick, a lot hollow. Jack Montgomery was a decent guy. He didn't deserve what happened to him. Sam knows this job is gonna stick with him for a while.

Dean's busying himself across the room, rummaging in his duffle and making his usual mess. Sam toes off his boots and socks and yawns, trying to convince himself to take a shower. He smells vaguely of burnt flesh, and he could do without the reminder of what he's done today.

It's a little surprising, to say the least, when Dean crosses the room toward him holding Ruby's knife, looking at Sam like he has every intention of using it.

"Dean, what—" Sam starts, but he cuts himself off midsentence when Dean stops in front of him and drops to his knees.

"You think you're alone in this?" Dean says, voice ripped to shreds. "Think I can't understand?" He raises the knife, rests it on Sam's left knee while he lays his bare forearm across the right. "Fine. We're gonna fix it. Give me your arm, Sam."

Sam stares at him for a second, uncomprehending. Dean stares back, immovable, unyielding, his whole body an order waiting to be obeyed. His eyes are full of pain that Sam can almost feel; nothing hurts Dean as much as feeling alienated from his family. But this—this is too much. Sam swallows back a rush of nervous excitement and slowly shakes his head.

"Dean, no. You don't want to do this. I can't—"

" _Give me your arm._ "

The words are quiet, but Dean's tone is like a whip. Sam shudders and offers his left forearm without conscious thought, caught by the steel in his brother's voice.

Dean pushes Sam's shirt cuff above his elbow, trailing a gentle touch over the vulnerable skin of his inner arm. He arranges Sam's hand so that it lies across his knee, Dean on his haunches only inches away. Sam watches in mute, shameful anticipation as Dean brings up his own left arm and cuts into the skin; a thin slice about three inches long just above the wrist. A hiss escapes him, but he doesn't flinch. Ruby's knife is sharp.

Sam watches Dean's blood well up bright and pure, untainted. He wants to pull away before this goes any further; wants to tell Dean to back off, let it go, leave him alone. A different part of him, small and frightened, wants to cling to Dean forever, hiding behind his big brother's strength. Dean grips Sam's wrist, pulling his arm straight and bringing the knife up, and Sam knows he's not strong enough to resist.

Dean looks him full in the face with anger and love and something very close to despair, and then Sam sees a second flash of silver.

Red-hot agony explodes along his skin where Dean cuts him, sinking in and eating away at his nerves. Of course: it's a demon-killing knife, and he's seen how it works. This is just confirmation of something they already knew—but it doesn't stop the flare of disappointment and, buried under that, fear. Sam lets out a grunt of pain and bites down on his lip, flexing his fist in Dean's hold, waiting for the burn to die away. Dean drops the knife and raises Sam's arm, shifting to take it in his own bloody grip. Their wounds line up, blood mingling freely for several minutes, until Dean evidently decides enough is enough and lets Sam go.

"Let me see," he says when Sam draws back. He gestures for Sam's arm impatiently, leaning over it to inspect the damage. Sam feels warm breath on delicate pain-singed nerves and something tightens in his stomach.

Dean leans in the last few inches and licks along the cut.

Sam flinches as fire erupts again under his skin, for an entirely different reason. Dean leans back and licks his lips, Sam's blood staining his teeth, and that unnamed something in Sam's stomach _twists_.

"There," he says, defiance in every line of his body. "I still don't understand a goddamned thing, but now you're not alone."

Sam can only stare, and breathe, and try to ignore the riot of conflicting emotions ( _heat_ ) inside him. Dean meets his gaze evenly, a muscle flickering in his cheek.

"Why did you do that?" Sam asks eventually, carefully. "Not the cutting. The, um, licking. Thing."

Dean shrugs. "Yellow-Eyes bled in your mouth, you bled in mine. Kind of. Look, it's symbolic, okay? It's not a big deal."

He pushes to his feet, his right hand cupped over the cut to slow the bleeding. He gets maybe half a step away when Sam snakes out his bloody hand and hooks his fingers in Dean's belt loop, drawing him back in.

Sam pulls his brother between his parted knees and rests his head against Dean's stomach.

"Thank you," he breathes, feeling Dean's muscles twitch. "I—Dean. It's a big deal, okay? It's a huge fucking deal, and I—Jesus. Thank you. _Thank you_."

He rolls his forehead back and forth, trying to find the words for what he needs to say. Then he looks up, hands tight on Dean's hips, keeping him close. Dean's hand has fallen away from his arm; fresh blood streaks his pale skin, scarlet on ivory. Sam angles his head and takes a taste of his own, salt-sweet and metallic: Dean.

"Sam," Dean says hoarsely. Just that; just his name. Sam's eyes fall down to where his hands are resting.

He should be surprised, he thinks dimly. Either that, or he should have seen it coming.

He leans in again, nuzzling soft denim and hard flesh, and feels Dean's fingers slide into his hair. Sam bites softly, and Dean's fingers clench, pulling him back by the hair. He looks up into Dean's face and slowly licks his lips.

"Let me," he whispers. "Dean, please, I _want_ —"

Dean makes a strangled noise and shoves two fingers in Sam's mouth.

Sam sucks them deep, tasting more salt, more blood, closing his eyes when Dean starts unbuckling his belt one-handed. He can feel Dean's heartbeat in his mouth, hear his harsh breaths and revels in the way it kicks his own responses up another notch. He feels _connected_ to Dean, and he hasn't felt like that with anyone in a very long time.

"Sam, look at me," Dean says, and Sam feels Dean's other hand under his chin.

He looks up, past Dean's naked cock and bloodstained arm, into green eyes dark enough to swallow him whole.

"Not alone," Dean tells him, stroking his free hand through Sam's hair. "Never again, you hear me? I'm right here. I'm always gonna be here."

Sam wants to make him promise, doesn't want to hear the lie. So he lets Dean's fingers slip free, leans forward and takes his cock in his mouth instead, trying to bind Dean to him in a different way. Dean utters a low-voiced, " _Fuck_ ," when he starts sucking, gripping tight fistfuls of hair and pushing closer, and Sam opens up and lets him in.

For four months he was alone in the world. He never wants to feel like that again.

"Shh," Dean murmurs, and Sam realises he's making sounds, small broken growls and near-whimpers as he tries to get closer, take Dean deeper. He can't deep-throat, never learned the trick of it, but that doesn't stop him from trying. Dean won't let him; he holds Sam's head still and fucks in deep, but stops short of the mark every time. Sam digs his fingers into Dean's hips and yanks him in with brute strength, gagging when Dean's next thrust goes a little too far. It's good; it's so good he almost doesn't care that it hurts, except for the look on Dean's face that says hurting Sam is killing him.

Sam eases back, sliding his hand into Dean's unbuttoned jeans to stroke his balls, feeling them grow tight and heavy in his fingers. Dean chokes out a warning, completely pointless because he's not letting go of Sam's head, and Sam closes his eyes again and sucks until he's dizzy, until all he sees is explosions of colour on black and all he can taste is blood and spunk and Dean.

"Jesus," and Dean's knees are giving way, "Jesus Christ, Sam," and he's pushing Sam flat on the bed and following him down. Now it's Sam's turn to feel, Dean's hand warm and rough and tight as it rips into his jeans and pulls him out; one hard dry stroke to start him off and Sam arches up off the bed.

Dean's grinning, a wicked _sexual_ grin; he brings his hand up and licks it, smearing traces of blood over Sam's dick when he slides it back down. Sam bites back a moan, sinks his teeth into his lip and then into Dean's when Dean kisses him, drawing more blood. Dean bites him back, a hard nip on the edge of his jaw, and sucks a mark red-raw and angry into the side of his throat. Sam feels the deep burning pain of it echoing the flare of agony in his arm; the warm shocky pleasure of Dean's tongue in his mouth and his hand on Sam's cock. He feels the weight of Dean pinning him down on the bed, and the simple fact that Dean is _there_ with him is suddenly enough to send him over the edge, all but screaming as he comes. Dean shoves his hand over Sam's mouth to muffle the noise; Sam convulses again in response, his cock jerking in Dean's other hand. The smell of semen rises sharp into the air, mingling with the darker scent of blood.

Sam opens his eyes and sees Dean above him, hands planted in the mattress beside Sam's shoulders, holding his body up off the bed. Dean's eyes are fixed on his face, checking him over, and the utter _normality_ of that in the face of what they've just done is enough to make him laugh.

"What?"

Dean looks almost affronted. Sam grins up at him, stretching his arms out sideways.

"Your mother hen routine," he says. "It's cute, but I'm okay." He rolls his hips up, slow, enjoying the aftershocks of a truly spectacular orgasm. "I'm a big boy, Dean. One little hand job isn't gonna break me."

He watches Dean's eyes go dark again and lets his grin widen. Then he reaches up and yanks Dean's hands out from under him, rolling them over when Dean collapses. They get into a kick fight, tussling for dominance, but Sam has weight and a superior knowledge of Dean's ticklish spots so the contest is short-lived. He ends up tucked against Dean's side, his head fitting neatly into the space beneath Dean's chin. They're not _cuddling_ , precisely; it's more like what they used to do as kids, curling up together for warmth or just to feel the other there. It's another connection, and Sam will take as many of those as he can get.

"I can't believe you did that," he murmurs, drawing an idle line along the cut on Dean's arm. "We don't know what might happen."

He can guess what Castiel will think of this. What Ruby's going to say. What he doesn't know is what it means for him and Dean, further down the line.

"Doesn't matter." Dean shrugs, clears his throat. "Point is, we're still in this together. You and me, right?"

Sam lingers over it a while longer, bringing his fingertip up for one final taste of Dean's blood.

"Right," he says at last. But at the back of his mind, he wonders.

END


End file.
